Origins of the Hero's Shade
by Superbleh11
Summary: Link, the Hero of Time, after years of adventuring for the sake of Hyrule, now lives a peaceful if somewhat desolate life deep in the wilderness, until a face from his past knocks on his door with an untrustworthy gift. OoT/MM, Prologue to future story


**A/N:** Hey all. This is a kind of prologue to a fic that I'm thinking about doing, centered around Link from the Twilight Princess era. Basically, a huge part of that fic would involve Link from that time connecting to the Link from the Ocarina of Time, and would probably also feature an interesting visit or two from the Happy Masked Man himself :D

Anyways, this is a new fandom for me, so please, if you're feeling generous, tell me what you think of the characters!

Enjoy!

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Link, the Hero of Time:

Hauling water up to the cabin is always the most difficult part of my day. It's not just that the water weighs a lot, which it does, but managing to keep the liquid in the buckets as my walking sloshes it back and forth is almost impossible. And getting a little older and a little stiffer every day doesn't help much.

The river babbles and spurts water across the bank as it flows by, sending glistening droplets of clear, blue water through the sunlight exposed between tree leaves. I can barely hear the whisper of my own breathy sigh as I kneel into the sandy bank and feel the coarse grit press into my exposed knee caps. The already cold iron handle of the water bucket seems to get colder as the water kisses it lightly, foaming slightly in the current as the it fills.

My shoulders clench up as I forcibly pry the bucket from the current of the river, the wood squeaking noisily as I let it sink into the loose, damp sand of the shore. I let the breath seep from my lungs as I wrap my hand around the handle, letting the thin wire dig painfully into my palm as I force my tired shoulders to hold as I rise. The strain is immediate: a dull, throbbing pain springs to life in my arm, and I have to grit my teeth to ignore it. The water sloshes noisily from the sides of the bucket as I haul it up the path, feeling beads of sweat form and coagulate upon my face despite the chilled weather of early Spring.

I count the steps, hearing the crunching of the deer trail underneath my boots, but before I even manage to count to thirty, I have to stop, allowing the bucket to touch the ground as I lean against the tree.

As I look up into the flecks of sunlight that peek between the scattered canopy leaves, my memory flashes back to days long gone, when I could carry almost forty pounds of equipment and still run several miles. Back when I was needed. When I served a purpose.

I bring a hand to my forehead, the thick, greasy canvas gloves sweeping the sweat from my skin as I kneel down to haul my burden the rest of the way. I can see the cabin already, basking in the warm morning sunlight of the tree clearing. With a nostalgic sigh, my hands grip the dull black iron handle and lift it once more from the ground.

The old hinges cradling my thin, oaken door squeak violently as I coax the thing open, hauling the increasingly heavy water bucket through the frame and emptying it into the sink-box. My arms sag with relief as the water noisily flows into the readied opening, coloring the wood a damp maple as it begins to settle. I drop the water bucket onto the hardwood floor, not even noticing the clatter as I go to step into the golden morning sunlight.

It's a beautiful day. Achingly beautiful. Wispy puffs of clouds drift happily through the ocean-blue sky, disappearing behind a hilly horizon that arcs and dances like the strokes of a paintbrush. Leaves of every shade of green flow across the hills, from the light playful green of the oaks and maples to the darker, sadder green of the cedars and birches. I let the smell of the forest into my nostrils, the sweet, earthy smell of evergreens, and watch the way the odd dapples of sunlight sweep across their dull brown bark. Birds whistle happily through the morning air, accompanied by the odd click or chirp of an insect and the throaty bellows of frogs by the river.

Yes, my cabin is in a beautiful stretch of land. Beautiful enough to wrench forth unbidden memories that I keep locked within my heart. Enough to reopen fresh wounds that not even time will heal. Faces flash from behind my eyes: a red-haired rancher girl with a quick and easy smile, a small, fun-loving green-haired child with ancient emerald eyes, a striking regal princess.

Memories that lock me deep within my beautiful prison.

It isn't until I notice the slight patter of small footsteps oddly poking through the melody of the forest that I am jerked from my revery. My brows narrow slightly as I listen for the pattern, counting the beats in the gait. I hear the faint whisper of crushed grass, then the noticeable crunch of dirt underfoot. Two beats. Only one person, but definitely a person.

I frown before rising to my feet and easing into the relative safety of my cabin. Way out here, an unexpected visitor means trouble far more often than not, and I'm not about to let my small cabin get ransacked by bandits. My tired eyes glance longingly at the bow resting lightly against the maple wall, then fall upon my dry, wrinkled hands. Far too old to properly draw a bow string.

Instead my hand rests upon the hilt of a sword: the tips lightly caress the cold, metal pommel before they slip around the coarse leather binding around the tang. I pluck the weapon from the ground with a little more effort than I'd like, exposing the silvery glimmer of the steel blade to the air as I pry the sheath from it. My gaze shifts from the light wooden scabbard strewn across the floor to the heavy steel shield lying next to it. Blue, yellow, and red paint have chipped and flecked with time, exposing the dull metal underneath, but as I run my right arm through the straps and buckle it tightly, I feel as though it could probably stop at least an arrow or two. Hopefully.

I stroll almost casually back through the door, wincing slightly in the harsh yellow day as I try to plan my next move. The worst case scenario is that this lone man is a bandit with some skill in archery. If this is the case, moving too far from the door of my cabin would leave my back exposed, but merely sheltering myself within its walls may make him decide to light some arrows on fire. Best choice for me is probably to make myself known. The more threatening he finds me, the more likely he will press on without firing a shot.

Yet another groan rasps its way through my throat. Would have been a time when I would have strapped a quiver to my back and snuck into the woods, moving silently through the underbrush and flushing him out with some well placed bombs. I'd catch him with an arrow before he realized that the bomb blasts were mere distractions.

Now, about the only thing I trust my old and tired muscles to do is swing my blade, and I'm not even sure how far I can trust them to do that. Decades of experience and a quick mind can only carry you so far against a younger, faster, stronger opponent.

"I knowthat you're out there!" I shout, my voice echoing dramatically between the massive trees. "And I know that you're wandering up the path! If you're friendly, please, make yourself known, and I would be glad to share breakfast with you. If you aren't, I suggest turning around now, because I promise you, I _will _kill you."

The sword already begins to feel heavy in my left hand as I ready it, letting the point of the blade dip slightly forward. I draw my shield high, bracing it against the tip of my shoulder as I hold it slightly aloft, the brunt of the kite shape covering my head and torso from any potential missiles. It's a bad plan; all it takes is one good shot from a bow and I'm a goner, but I'll be _damned_ if I'm going out without a fight.

The voice I hear catches me firmly off guard, but the mixture of relief and confusion that courses through my veins makes my arms go limp, allowing both the shield and sword to flop uselessly to the ground.

"Now, now, I realize that this is some deep country, but is that any way to greet an old acquaintance?"

It is thin and reedy, yet whimsical and melodic, as though escaping the funnel of an odd woodwind. Shock pours through my body as I glimpse the dark beige canvas of his huge pack, bobbing up and down with his odd gait as his face finally crests the steep hill. Bright brown hair, so bright that it almost appears red as the sun soaks it in its deep morning rays, rustles in the slight breeze. His smile suddenly peeks from between the sharp blades of grass, pointed and focused, as though painted upon his face by a very talented artist. His eyes squint sharply from the tightness of the muscles focusing his face, scrunched together into little more than a deep set of wrinkles caught within his eyelids, sharply contrasting the thin, manicured eyebrows.

"You..." I mutter blankly. My hand finds its way into my hair, probing the thinning, wispy strands as I struggle to take in his features. "You... you haven't aged!"

His smile seems to broaden as the treble patter of his footsteps leads him to the cabin. The bright pastel colors of his clothing stand out starkly amidst the monochromatic green and brown of the forested scenery. He laughs; wild tenor chirrups bubble from his throat as he bows low in front of me.

"I take care of myself, Sir Link," he accedes, "Now, would you be so kind as to invite me in? I have traveled an awfully long way to speak with you."

I fight to keep from raising an eyebrow at the statement, feeling the small hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end. Something slightly electric passes through the air, sending ripples of goosebumps up and down my spine. I shoot him whatever sort of smile I can manage, prying the corners of my mouth upwards before raising my hand towards the door genially.

"Please. Come in," I say, forcing clarity and strength into the words. "It's not much, but make yourself comfortable."

He bows again, though less deeply, before walking into the cabin. The soft patter of his footsteps quickly becomes more clipped and wooden as he steps inside. A chair squeaks loudly against the hard floorboards as he pries it from under the table and slips a thin, wiry hand into the thick leather strap of his pack to shuck it from his arm. The burlap canvas whispers scratchily as it rustles from him. A cloud of dust blossoms into the air, accompanying the loud, explosive clatter of the massive pack falling to the floor. I pull the matching chair out, lifting it free from the hardwood flooring as I do so, and sit down, never once prying my eyes from the deeply cut squints of the mask salesman.

"You need not be embarrassed of your dwellings!" he says happily, "I find it quite remarkable, what you've been able to create by yourself, in the wild."

A blossom of irritation flowers in my stomach. I don't have the time or inclination to bandy words and beat around the bush with this man.

"You came all this way to compliment me on my interior design?" I ask, prying as much sarcasm from the statement as I can manage.

The smile doesn't move.

"Oo, quick and to the point! I suppose that sort of thing is to be expected from you, Sir Link," he responds, "No, indeed I didn't come here for such trivialities. But you may indeed be interested in what I have come to propose. I am here to offer you a gift!"

I lean back in the chair, my hand straying to the hunting knife strapped to my belt. I never trusted this man, not fully anyway, even when I was a child. Seeing him all the way out here, having changed so little and speaking in such general language does nothing to alleviate my fears.

"A gift," I repeat, "What kind of a gift"

He chuckles lightly, the sound bright and falsetto. "A _mask_ of course! What else?" he says, allowing a hand to flutter vibrantly through the air.

"Right," I agree, nodding politely, "And what would the precise _nature _of this mask be? As I recall it, you carry some masks of incredible power, and not all of them are good."

"Indeed, you remember correctly, Sir Link!" he admits, folding a hand underneath his chin, "I regret that, as a peddler of masks, I do not always get to consider such notions of good and evil within my wares. But as for this _particular_ mask-" he begins, leaning forward, "-This is a mask that I believe you may be able to make use of, and, let me assure you, it does not contain any evil within it. _That _sort of distinction is entirely dependent upon the nature of the bearer."

He moves from the table, rustling through the opening of his burlap pack. The chaotic clatter of wood rattling against wood punches the rough fabric, echoing loudly within my small cabin as he digs through its contents. After what seems like an eternity, his right hand emerges from the bag, clutching what looks to be an unfinished mask: it is a softly rounded oval of unpainted wood. However, as my eyes begin to focus upon the tan and amber streaks of grain, flowing through the wood like water, the faint image of a teardrop fastens itself within my mind. A frigid coldness settles in the room as I stare, and, once more, the faint feeling of electricity slips through me, sending an icy shudder down my spine.

"This is the Shade Mask, Sir Link," he explains, placing the thing lightly upon the table, "It is an ancient mask; perhaps the oldest one that I have acquired in all my years of this trade, and, as would be expected of such a thing, the power it holds is quite unique."

His voice grows more hushed as he speaks; the humor seeps from it, washing upon the floor, leaving nothing in its wake but an eerie sense of foreboding.

"He who wears this mask," he begins, "gains the power to leave a piece of himself upon this plane of existence. As his spirit passes from this world to the next, a small part of it remains ground upon the world, set aside to accomplish a task of his choosing."

I don't move, allowing the words to hang in the air for a moment. The hairs upon my neck turn distinctly feral, shooting vicious bolts of lightening into my chest. A fear, leaden and cold settles within my stomach as I stare through the tightly clenched skin of his eyes into the wet pupils, watching the glistening blackness shimmer brightly underneath. A significant part of me wants to rip the knife from my belt, to jump across the table and plunge into the heart of this.... Mask peddler... but even were I to give into that instinct, I cannot bid my arm to move.

"What... what are you?" I whisper, squeezing the words through my tightened throat.

His smile doesn't move.

"I am a Mask salesman," he responds evenly, "That is all."

My breathe comes in ragged gasps, and I don't move, either.

"The question that I feel is more prevalent to the issue at hand," he begins, "Is what are you? And of course, that is easily answered! _You _are the Hero of Time, noble soul chosen by the Goddesses as the bearer of the Triforce of Courage! And you have more than proven yourself worthy! But, as you are surely aware, your time is beginning to pass. And when it does, the Triforce of Courage will remain dormant, awaiting the next soul to be Chosen in Hyrule's hour of need. That soul will have much to live up to, as you no doubt already know. Having a teacher would, I imagine, be of immense help to the next bearer of your particular... _gift_."

His fingers tap rhythmically against the wooden table as he speaks this last word, accompanying a subtle but noticeable quirk of his painted-on eyebrows. Gift. I sit up slightly in my chair, straightening the tired muscles in my back as I move to meet him at eye level.

"You're offering me... the ability to leave a remnant of myself behind... to teach the next of my descendants to hold the Triforce of Courage?" I ask, measuring the words carefully as I speak them.

His smile broadens slightly.

"Should you choose to use it for that, yes," he says evasively. I can almost smell the energy floating through the air; I feel it upon my face and in my lungs, flowing over my body like a sheen of sweat. My fists clench, and I realize that the palms have become clammy and warm, dripping perspiration upon the table. As I try to stare into the eyes of this... thing... looking for some way to break the hold he has over me, something seems to snap, rippling through the cold with the warmth of a crackling fire. I can feel the wrinkles tightening around my face, feel the muscles in my jaw squeezing as tightly as they are able, and I slowly, resolutely rise to my feet.

For the first time, the Mask peddler's smile falters slightly.

A fresh wave of sadness, colder and cleaner then the old tides that have washed over my heart crests and breaks within me, but even as it begins to tug me under, a slight burst of hope stretches across the horizon.

"This mask," I begin evenly, "It will kill me, won't it?"

His smile remains plastered on, but I see his Adam's apple bob in his scrawny throat.

"There is always a price for this sort of power," he admits, "A sad fact of leaving a portion of your spirit behind is that your spirit actually has to _move _from this life to the next."

A hard knot blossoms within my throat as I try to speak the next words. "Could I... could I help him?"

"Why, of _course_ you could! Someone of your immense experience would have-"

"_Damn _it, that is not what I meant!" I snap, and the torrent of emotion releases itself into my fist as it slams down painfully onto the table. "Listen, Mask salesman, I don't know what you are, but I no longer care. Clearly you have answers, clearly you have some magical connections that I don't have or understand. I don't care if this mask kills me. I want to know how... how I can help him."

A tear slides down my cheek, catching in the crags of my worn face as I curse my inability to communicate. It's plagued me nearly all of my life, but here, now, when I need to express what I want to do the most...

"I want... to teach him about what happened to me. I want to... Curse it, I've never been very good at talking," I acknowledge, breaking contact with his eyes as I angrily cast the wetness from my face.

"I know what you mean," he says softly, and my gaze is jerked back to meet his. The words are shockingly candid; the lilting humor that his voice carried before is gone, but instead of leaving behind a sinister emptiness, an intense, emotional seriousness has taken its place. The tingling energy that was flowing so powerfully throughout the room suddenly evaporates, settling the small hairs on my neck as the sunlight begins to reheat the air.

He stands up to match me, his thin frame bending elastically as he pries himself out of his chair. He is several inches shorter than me, and I am taken aback by how frail and small he seems in comparison with the way I remembered. I could feel his power even as a child, and it always managed to awe me, but now, as I look down into his eyes, I sense a weakness in him, a fragility that almost scares me.

"You admit that you do not know what I am," he says, "That is well and good. But I, Sir Link, know a great deal of what you are, and I understand. And, if you wish it, I will allow pieces of you to convey the lessons that you wish to."

A thick, cloying blanket of silence floats softly into the room.

"Can I... Will I be able to help him?" I ask lamely.

He nods, sagely. "I think that you will. You always lived up to your title, in every facet of your life. He will listen, and he will understand."

My jaw quivers, against my will, and I pick up the mask.

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**A/N: **Well that's all! Thanks for reading through all the way! Couple of things: I know I didn't reveal much here (intentionally) but I've developed a big backstory to the Happy Masked Man that will come out at least somewhat in the big chapter fic if I decide to write it ^___^. Also, I figured that a character like Link, whose so identifiable and so great needs to have at least one major flaw, so I kind of took his trademark silence in the video games as kind of indicative of a lack of communication skills, which I think could play very interestingly with the whole idea of the holder of the Triforce of Courage trying to fit back into his community.

All in all, I'm a huge, huge Zelda fan, I've loved the games since I started playing them, and I've been wanting to make this transition for a long time. I considered holding off from moving to this fandom until the next Wii title hits (here's hoping its on time in 2010!!), but I thought more about it and decided it'd be nice to take a little risk and see what y'all think! If the reception is good, I'll almost definitely write a nice long chapter fic in the style of some of my others!

Keep reading!

Superbleh11


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